


Little Black Dress

by pillage_and_lute



Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: F/F, but not very, kinda spicy, self indulgent, yennefer has a competence kink
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-28
Updated: 2020-11-28
Packaged: 2021-03-10 06:36:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 866
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27749875
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pillage_and_lute/pseuds/pillage_and_lute
Summary: Shameless self-indulgent flirtation between Yennefer and her dressmaker, because if I can’t write about a sexy all-powerful sorceress (and her competence kink) then what’s the point of fanfic.
Relationships: Yennefer z Vengerbergu | Yennefer of Vengerberg/Original Female Character(s)
Comments: 1
Kudos: 20





	Little Black Dress

Yennefer wondered, sometimes, if magic didn’t occasionally sneak in somewhere unknown. She knew it turned up sometimes, often in inopportune guises, she herself was proof. But some people had a little extra spark of something, maybe magic, maybe Destiny bestowing a rare gift with a wink and a nod. Small, mundane, everyday magic. A potter’s gift with clay, forming usefulness and beauty from raw earth, a bookbinder wrapping stories like presents and never blinking an eye at the power at his fingertips.

Yennefer lived for it.

She sought out the mundane magic, the talents of everyday people fascinated her. Powers she would never possess and didn’t necessarily care to, but admired all the same. She liked the best in life, wanted the best for herself, and she was drawn to people who could provide those things for her. 

In Redania, right next to a rather good wine merchant, was a lady who always provided Yennefer with the best…of everything. Elsie Packard was, quite probably, the Continent’s best dressmaker. If she wasn’t, her attitude, her connections to the best cloth merchants, and in the past years, her excellent and widespread marketing, made sure everyone believed she was the best all the same. Queens, Empresses, Duchesses, Countesses, anyone who wore dresses in the public eye wanted a dress from Elsie Packard. The waiting list was months long. 

Yennefer was never on the waiting list. She never waited at all.

As she entered the shop, expanded hugely from when she’d first been inside, some twenty years before, she admired the surroundings. Huge bolts of the finest fabrics lined the walls. Bins of buttons in pearl and ivory crouched in the corners next to reels of lace and ribbon. Apprentices and tailors scuttled about like starlings, flocking to and fro, each one inevitably armed with a pair of huge and fiercly sharp shears.

In the center of it all, sipping champagne with one hand on her hip, was the lady herself. Elsie was no longer the waif of twenty that Yennefer had first met, all bone thin and sunken eyes but clearly full of talent and drive. Elsie, like her shop, had expanded. Her figure was the fashionably full and rounded shape that all the courtly painters preferred in their works these days. Soft chin, wide hips, and a full bust, all wrapped in pink silk like a present.

She caught Yennefer’s eye and smiled. It looked like a promise. 

With all the grace of a queen in court (and Yennefer had seen many queens and many courts, this was perhaps being the best of the lot) Elsie waved an imperious hand and apprentices heeded her beck and call. Then they scattered.

Yennefer walked with the dressmaker to a backroom. Apprentices bobbing in and out like corks in a stream. One brought a leather-bound sketchbook, much nicer than the stained, thin thing of twenty years prior. Another returned with Elsie’s champagne glass refilled, and one for Yennefer. Then they were alone.

Both women assessed the other, gazes lingering. Elsie appeared to consider Yennefer as she rolled the rim of her glass across her pale pink lips. 

Success looked well on her, Yennefer thought, and she’d certainly worked for it, she knew. She probably did little of her own sewing anymore, although the strength visible in the large, soft arms attested to lifting great bolts of fabric. The designs were still hers, of course and the leather-bound sketchbook that sat on the low table between them was proof. In the golden daylight that filtered in through the window it looked like a promise. 

Yennefer sipped her champagne.

Elsie smiled, a warm, almost salacious smile, and licked the last drop of wine from her lips, before standing from her comfortable chair.

The honey-gold of her hair, which the years had gifted a few threads of silver, was swept up artfully and it caught the sunlight. A curl had escaped and lay teasingly against the back of her neck, an inch or less from the back of the silken gown she wore. Yennefer stood as well and crossed to the full length mirror in the corner of the room.

“Its been a few months, Lady Yennefer,” Elsie said. Her voice was sweet, like honey, and powerful like a goddess. “Will we need new measurements, do you think?” This was part of the game they played, had played since Elsie was just a lass in well-sewn rags. Yennefer’s body didn’t change, her measurements would never alter. 

“I suppose you must,” she said. Something sparkled in Elsie’s grey eyes and she pulled a tape measure from a pocket in her dress. 

She knelt, and Yennefer admired the way the cut of the dress accentuated soft, full breasts, which swelled now as Elsie took a breath. It was like watching an empire rise and fall.

“We’ll start with the legs, my lady,” Elsie said, strong, soft, self-assured hands pinning the tape measure to Yennefer’s ankle, and tracking the other end up with her hand, under the dress, all the way up Yennefer’s thigh. Yennefer clicked her fingers and the black dress she’d donned that morning dissappeared. Elsie smiled up at her.

A fine dressmaker indeed.


End file.
